“No. Just the Bundt pan. Kira, you remember Sam, right? From the pool?”
God, I hope Kira recognizes me. The last thing I need is to reintroduce myself to a child because I’mthatunremarkable.
“Can I try?” Kira asks. She attempts to hand Nick the two pizza boxes she’s holding. “I wanna try it.”
“No. I don’t think anyone should try to pick it,” he says, looking at me. “It could damage the lock.”
He’s probably right, but I hate conceding anything when I’m already in such a pathetic position—kneeling outside the door, tiny piece of metal digging into the pad of my thumb, a sheen of sweat on my back.
“Want to come over to our place until they get home?” he asks. “We have air-conditioning. And pizza.”
So much for my bitch sesh.
“The cheese one is mine,” Kira says, protectively clutching the boxes.
9
I watch, envious, as Nick openshis own door with his key.
“Come on in. Sorry about the boxes. We’re not completely unpacked yet.”
“This is my cousin Romily,” I say after we enter the gloriously cool apartment.
“Are you married?” Kira asks Romily as she sets down the pizza on the cluttered counter.
“No. I’ve been celibate for two and a half years.”
Kira furrows her brow for the first of what I assume will be a hundred times this evening. “What’s that?”
“Something you should ask your dad about,” I say quickly. “Romily works at Starbucks.”
“Only until school starts in the fall,” she says.
Kira’s eyes light up. She lets out a gasp. “IloveStarbies.”
“I’m sure you do.” Romily turns to Nick. “Every time I see a pack of twelve-year-olds come into the store I want to burn my own hand in the warming oven.”
Kira seems to find this awe-inspiring rather than frightening.
“Romily is the person who opens the door first thing in the morning when it’s still dark out,” I say. “If she’s not there, no one gets coffee.”
“She works at Starbucks!” Kira exclaims to her dad.
“I’m the key holder,” Romily says gravely. “I have unlimited power.”
“Are you the key master?” Nick says in a voice that sounds like a growl. He seems to be waiting for one of us to nod in recognition. “Ghostbusters?” All three of us just stare at him blankly. “Bill Murray knocks at the door and Sigourney Weaver is all possessed and sexy and asks, ‘Are you the key master?’ ”
Kira makes a face. “Da-ad,don’t say that word.”
I think she meanssexy,and I get it, because even at the age of almost twenty-seven, I feel weird when my mom brings up anything with sexual connotations.
“I’m the only one in this apartment who knowsGhostbusters?” Nick shakes his head. “I’ve never felt more ancient.”
“I’ve seen it,” I say. Then, because I’m afraid there might be follow-up, I add, “Maybe not all the way through. It’s one of my dad’s favorite movies.”
Judging by the look on his face, I’m not sure pointing out that he shares cultural touchpoints with my dad helped assuage the “ancient” bit.
While Kira tears into the cheese-only pizza, I look around Nick’s apartment: the exact layout of my mom’s place, except for the landscape of cardboard box mountains, anchored by a giant sofa that’s far too big for the space. Did the house he shared with his ex have an enormous den where this piece of furniture wasthe perfect scale for movie nights? Or do men instinctively purchase the largest sofas they can find, square footage be damned?
